


You Are Enough

by DKNC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:06:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic was written for Day 4 of Cat x Ned week on tumblr--stories had to take place during the period from the Greyjoy Rebellion to the beginning of the books.</p><p>After years of marriage, five children, and mutually acknowledged love for each other, Ned sometimes still seems to go to a very dark place that he cannot or will not share with his wife, leaving Catelyn to wonder if she can ever truly be enough.</p><p>Sort of inspired by these lines from the song “Tenerife Sea”—“Should this be the last thing I see, I want you to know it’s enough for me, because all that you are is all that I’ll ever need.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Enough

Catelyn Stark set her one year old son down on the floor of the little sept, and he immediately began to toddle about from one pedestal to another, smacking his hands against them and grinning up at the beautifully carved statues representing the seven aspects of god. Satisfied that he would amuse himself for a moment, she turned to kneel before the Warrior and offer her prayers before he lost interest in exploring the space. She had found herself praying most often to the Mother over the years, but whenever Ned had to leave Winterfell, she would offer her prayers to the Warrior for her husband’s safe return--even when there was no violence anticipated. The world was not a safe place. Two wars had more than taught her that.

She smiled when she saw the small pile of flowers laid atop one of the pedestals at the feet of the Maiden. Sansa had been here. Her nine year old daughter had taken to making such offerings to the Maiden since Septa Mordane had instructed her in the prayers a maiden should say for a gentle spirit and a true, loving heart so that she might be an admirable wife to a worthy lord husband one day. Catelyn suppressed a laugh as she remembered her lessons on maidenhood and marriage from her own septa, thinking that while Septa Mordane was certainly a good, devout woman and a fine teacher for her daughters, there was much about marriage the septa would never understand. Catelyn was determined that her daughters would approach marriage with a far more realistic understanding of both the difficulties and the potential joy of it than she had been given. But her girls were still young. There was time yet, and she saw no harm in allowing Sansa her songs and dreams and the simple pleasure of innocent prayers offered with flowers.

All of her children came regularly to the sept to pray with her, just as they all accompanied Ned to the godswood, but only Sansa seemed to truly enjoy the songs and recitations and times of quiet reflection here. The other three preferred the godswood to the sept, but that didn’t trouble Catelyn. They were Starks, after all, her children. And she knew well enough it wasn’t truly a rejection of her gods. For Robb and Bran, it was simply their burning desire to model themselves after Ned in nearly everything. She supposed that if her husband took up praying to the moon while dancing naked in the courtyard, her elder two sons would rapidly declare that to be their preferred form of worship as well. Catelyn laughed at the mental image of her solemn, proper husband who had to be cajoled to dance in the Great Hall capering about outdoors without his clothes on, wondering how her mind had even conjured such a thing. The sound of her laughter drew Rickon’s attention, and her babe toddled over to grab at her skirts. 

“Mama!” he cried, lifting his arms to be picked up.

She smiled at her youngest fondly. “You still prefer the sept,” she said. “But only because I am here. Soon you will grow bigger and prefer to chase after your father as much as your brothers do.” He still liked to be near her, and he showed no interest in giving up the teat, but he was already much braver in many ways than the older children had been at his age. He would already fiercely oppose his much bigger siblings with growls and grunts and tiny fists whenever they did something he didn’t like. It made her laugh, and she wondered if he might grow to be rather like Arya. 

Her younger daughter almost always desired whatever she was forbidden, and her greatest joys were always found outdoors. Catelyn knew that Arya’s preference for the godswood over the sept resulted simply from the godswood being outdoors and being the one place in the castle Septa Mordane never went. As the child chafed at being constricted by walls or rules, neither the sept nor the Septa ranked high on her list of favorites. She was only seven, and the gods knew that Catelyn herself had not infrequently escaped her septa at that age to swim in the rivers which surrounded her home, but she had never possessed quite the wildness she saw in her precious child with Ned’s face. Many in the castle compared Arya to Ned’s dead sister, Lyanna, and that frightened Catelyn sometimes. She prayed that she could help her little she-wolf to find a safer place and better fate in this world than her aunt had.

She pulled her wriggling son into her arms and quickly finished her prayer to the Warrior for protection, courage, and strength for her husband in his travels to deal with this latest dispute among the ever contentious mountain clans. Sighing, as she recalled his face when he’d left her chambers this morning, she offered another prayer--for the contentment and peace of his spirit.

Rickon, in spite of having only just been lifted up, became unhappy with her stillness and kicked his legs in a demand to be put back down. She knew he would lose all patience with remaining inside the sept soon. Sighing, she turned to the statue of the Father, repeating that last prayer for Ned to him, thinking that the Father, of all the gods, might best understand what troubled her husband. Gods knew she tried to understand, but she couldn’t completely, and it troubled her that Ned shared so little of this with her when they had come to share so much else between them. 

Finally, she knelt before the stranger and prayed for comfortable repose for the souls of Brandon and Lyanna Stark--the man she had once thought to marry and the woman, only a girl really, who was little more than a name and a tragic story to her, but obviously so very much more to her husband. She prayed for them for their own sakes, to be sure, but even more so for Ned’s--that they might leave her husband in peace.

Ned was in what she called his “crypt mood.” Most of the time, her husband seemed well contented with their life in Winterfell, happy even. She knew he loved her and their children, and that he found joy in their family just as she did. Yet, sometimes a brief shadow would cross his face as he watched the children at play or told her a tale of Winterfell’s past, and she would know his mind went to those he had lost. He almost never spoke of them, though. Occasionally he would tell a happy tale from his childhood in which Brandon or Lyanna featured, but even speaking of happy times with his siblings seemed too often to grieve him. He never, ever spoke about the way either of them died. Not even to her. She knew no more about Brandon Stark’s death than she had when word of it came to Riverrun all those years ago. Of events at that terrible place inexplicably referred to as the Tower of Joy, she knew almost nothing at all. The only secret her husband held more tightly than these things was the identity of his bastard’s mother, and that particular secret was one Catelyn refused to allow herself to dwell upon. 

Most days, though, the intrusion of Ned’s grief upon them was fleeting thing, something she could coax him out of with a smile or a touch, or a tale of the latest accomplishment or minor transgression of one of the children. Every several moons or so, however, he would find himself compelled to visit the crypts. 

Catelyn had been there only twice in all these years. The first was shortly after her arrival at Winterfell when Brandon’s bones, finally sent from King’s Landing at the conclusion of the Rebellion, and Lyanna’s bones, brought from Dorne by Ned himself, were formally interred. The second time was not long after that when she’d accompanied Ned to view the statues of his brother and sister which had been completed to stand over their remains. The statue of Brandon had been a reasonable likeness, but as it held no warmth or life or vibrant energy, it reminded her little of the man she had known in brief spans of time over years at Riverrun. She’d spent more time looking at Lyanna’s likeness, wondering how much the poor girl had suffered, and thinking she could see some measure of that when she saw the deep sadness in her lord husband’s face as he gazed upon the same likeness. 

She didn’t avoid the crypts now out of fear or lack of respect for the dead. She simply knew that Ned preferred to make his rare visits alone. Even during the few years Benjen had remained with them after the war, the Stark brothers had made their visits to the crypts separately. It had seemed strange to Catelyn, as she thought it would be comforting to have a family member to help shoulder such grief, but she’d simply decided it was one more peculiarity about these Northmen that she must come to accept if not completely understand.

Rickon was tugging impatiently on her skirts now so she rose from her knees and bent to pick him up. She wouldn’t hurry his baby days away for anything, but a part of her did long for the days when he could join his siblings in Maester Luwin’s quarters for lessons. These were the only hours she could find time to pray or do anything else truly alone, and the constant presence of an energetic one year old certainly hampered her in such pursuits.

 _Of course,_ she thought as she stepped back out into the sunshine and set her son down to wander about at her feet, _I’ll likely have another babe by then._ For all her desire for the occasional private moment, that thought troubled her not at all. She loved her babes, and she would gladly give Ned as many as the gods would grant her. 

“Mother!” came a shout from the direction of the Great Keep, and she saw Arya running toward her, skirts bunched up in her hands in a most unladylike fashion. Catelyn sighed. Whatever was she to do with the girl?

“Mother,” Arya repeated excitedly when she reached her, flinging herself at Catelyn and throwing her arms around her waist.

Catelyn laughed even as she looked down and took note of the distressing state of the brown hair now pressed against her belly. “Such an exuberant greeting, sweetling! What is the cause for such excitement?” She frowned slightly, realizing the direction from which Arya had come. “And aren’t you supposed to be in lessons?”

“The new foal came, Mother! Hullen came and told Maester Luwin, and we all begged and he said we’d worked hard enough, and he let Robb and Jon and Bran go, but he said Sansa and I must ask Septa first because we were supposed to do sewing and . . .”

The words tumbled out of the girl’s mouth as wildly as the waters of Catelyn’s childhood had flowed over the rocks in the Tumblestone. “Slow down,” she interrupted. “The black mare has foaled?” she asked, knowing Ned had been looking forward to this event. The mare was one of the most intelligent and good natured horses in Winterfell, and he’d bred her to one of his strongest and sturdiest stallions. He hoped for great things with this foal. “And the boys have gone to see it?” she asked as Arya’s head bobbed excitedly in answer to her first question. Arya continued nodding and grinning up at her.

Catelyn turned to look toward the Great Keep. “Why do I not see your sister?” she asked, raising a brow. “Surely, Septa Mordane did not allow only you to come? Or did Sansa not wish to see the foal?” She knew there was little chance of that. While Sansa was not as enthusiastic about horses and riding as her younger sister, she loved babies of all kinds, and would not miss the opportunity to see a baby animal of any sort.

Arya bit her lip. “I . . .don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask, did you?” Catelyn said, looking at her daughter rather severely.

“She’ll say no! I know she will!” Arya wailed. “She thinks nothing is more important than sewing and I hate sewing and the boys all got to go see the foal and it’s not fair and . . .please, please let me go, Mother!”

“Where is your sister?” Catelyn asked with a sigh.

Arya shrugged. “Sewing, probably. And telling Septa Mordane how disobedient I am.” She frowned as she said the last, and Catelyn frowned as well.

“Arya,” she admonished her. “Your sister is right to ask permission first, and you know she wants to see the foal as well. I should send you to your room, young lady, and . . .”

“Mother! Look at Rickon!” Arya suddenly said, laughing and pointing toward the wall that separated this part of the yard from the larger area of yard beyond it.

“Oh gods!” Catelyn exclaimed. While she’d dealt with Arya, the tot had wandered all the way to the wall and had climbed upon a pile of stones that must have fallen from it. He now perched precariously on the top of the pile, attempting to stand up straight. “Go on to the stable, Arya!” Catelyn called as she bunched her own skirts up as haphazardly as her daughter had earlier in order to run and retrieve the boy before he fell. “I’ll tell Septa you have my permission!” she shouted as she went, and she heard her daughter’s shout of glee.

She managed to pull Rickon, protesting loudly, off the stones before he could injure himself, and she went to rescue Sansa from Septa Mordane’s rather strict enforcement of rules. Ordinarily, she backed the septa when it came to schooling her daughters in the womanly arts, but this was a special occasion. Sansa, who ordinarily truly enjoyed her needlework, laid it aside and shot out of her chair at Catelyn’s words, grabbing a surprised Jeyne Poole by the hand and tugging her along. She stopped long enough to say, “Thank you, Mother!” before leaving the room and the rather flustered septa behind. Catelyn calmed the woman, assured her the girls could spend an extra hour on needlework the next day (Sansa would enjoy it, and it would be a suitable penance for Arya), and made her way to the nursery to put the increasingly irritable Rickon down for a nap. 

He fell asleep almost as soon as she’d offered him her teat, and she sighed, wishing that all of her children’s difficulties were so easily solved. Her mind then went to her husband, and she wished that she could soothe his troubles so easily as well. She wished that she could somehow be enough for him.

He’d gone to the crypts the day before, not long after the raven came from one of the clan chieftains asking for his assistance in some matter about his daughter being stolen by another clan. Catelyn had shaken her head, thinking not for the first time that the mountain clans often seemed to have more in common with the wildlings beyond the Wall than the other people of the North. For while the people here worshipped different gods, had different customs, and were certainly a bit rougher in manner than the southron lords and ladies she had grown up among, they were not barbarians. There was honor here, and courage. And far more warmth than she had ever hoped to find. While the Northmen had certainly viewed her with some suspicion at first and still tended to shake their heads at the notion of a sept in Winterfell, they had come to respect her over the years just as she respected them. No one questioned her loyalty to her lord husband, and of course the fact that she had now birthed five trueborn heirs raised her value in their estimation as well. She was the Lady of Winterfell and as proud and protective of her husband’s people as she ever had been of her own, even if she never would feel comfortable among the forbidding old gods of the godswood.

She respected and even mostly understood her husband’s bannermen, but these mountain clans were something else entirely. Ned refused to take her along when he visited their halls, telling her that she would be at best, miserable, and at worst, shocked by their idea of hospitality. It had bothered her once, but she had decided long ago that he truly did mean well by it. He was forever intent upon protecting her from any number of things. So, when the raven came with the chieftain’s complaint, she’d laughed and asked him if that’s why he wouldn’t take her into the mountain--that he feared she might be stolen away.

The smile had fled her face quickly when she’d beheld his face however, and she realized that he recalled another girl entirely who’d been stolen--not by a northern ‘barbarian,’ but by a southron prince. 

“Oh, Ned,” she’d said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“It is nothing,” he’d said in an almost expressionless voice, but she could see plainly by his face that it was far from nothing. He’d frowned at her. “I’ll have to go, of course. Not tomorrow. That’s too soon to be prepared. But mayhap the next day.”

“Must you go so quickly?” she’d asked him.

He‘d sighed. “The sooner I go and sort it out, the sooner I can return.” He’d turned to look out the window of his solar, somewhere far away. “And however it came to be, Winterfell is my place. I’d not be long away if I can help it.”

He’d left her then, his face set in hard lines as if to hide the grief and guilt he carried with him so often just below the surface. He’d not come to the evening meal, and when Robb asked after him, Jory Cassel had answered that Lord Stark had gone down to the crypts. Catelyn hadn’t been surprised.

She had no idea how long he’d remained in the crypts, but when hours passed and he had not come to her room, she’d known he must have left them already, and she knew where he had gone. Worried for him, she’d pulled on her cloak and ventured to her least favorite place in the castle.

He’d been there, of course, kneeling before the heart tree in the godswood, so intent upon his prayers or his thoughts that he didn’t even hear her approach. She’d stood watching him in the dim light for a bit before speaking. Summer days were long in the North and the sun remained in the sky well into the night, but it had been late enough that darkness was already descending, especially here beneath the canopy of these ancient trees. Catelyn had shivered although she wasn’t truly cold.

 _What troubles you so, my love?_ she’d thought as she’d looked at the man she loved. His head was bowed as if weighted down by a heavy burden, and it troubled her that he thought her too weak to help him carry it. It troubled her that she could not be enough to provide him solace when these troubles found him.

“Ned,” she’d finally said softly.

He’d looked up at her. “Catelyn,” he’d replied, sounding surprised to see here there. He knew how little she liked the place. “The children . . .” he’d started, and she’d heard the alarm in his voice.

“They are well. It is you who concerns me, my love.”

He’d bowed his head once more and sighed. “I am well enough.”

“You are troubled,” she’d insisted gently. “You grieve for those you have lost.”

He’d stood then, slowly and stiffly as if he’d been on his knees a long time. “We have all lost people, my lady. And we all grieve,” he’d said evenly as he walked to her.

“Yes,” she’d agreed, “But you have suffered a great many losses,” she’d said, laying a hand on his cheek. “Never doubt that I know that, Ned. I would comfort you if you’d allow it.”

“You are a comfort,” he’d said, still sounding too far away from her, too lost in his own thoughts. He’d looked at her, though. “In spite of having suffered too many losses of your own. You accept what the gods have handed you, my lady. And I am grateful for that.”

 _You would not accept what you have been given then?_ she’d thought disconsolately. _Would you have another life, my love? One that does not include me or our children?_ She knew he loved her. She knew it. But when the crypt mood struck him, and she was forced to acknowledge all that he still kept inside himself hidden from her, she found herself susceptible to old fears and doubts.

“Come to bed, my love,” she’d said. “It grows late, and if you plan to spend only one day preparing to ride north, you must rest.”

He’d come with her then, almost wordlessly. He’d come to her room, of course, rather than his own, and in the darkness he’d pulled her to him and kissed her with a wordless desperation. As she’d surrendered herself to his embrace, she’d been grateful that she could at least give him a physical release even if she could not soothe his spirit. 

Afterward, he had spoken not at all, but he’d held her against him in spite of the warmth of the room. He had held her as if he almost feared to let her go. She’d awakened to find him dressing to go outside. He’d kissed her softly, but said little other than “Good morning,” to her before leaving her there still in her bed.

Rickon’s head lolled back, releasing her nipple, and she pushed aside troubled memories of the previous evening and this morning to rise and lay him in his cot. She smiled at the sleeping boy, found a maid who promised to stay near enough to hear him when he woke, and then went back outside toward the kitchens. There would be a feast of sorts tonight--nothing elaborate, but a larger than usual meal to send off the men who would be riding out with Ned on the morrow.

It was upon leaving the kitchens that she encountered her husband for the first time since that morning. She knew he’d been busy with preparations for his trip all day. She’d discussed provisions with the cooks while in the kitchens and been told that Lord Stark had been there earlier himself. Now, she saw him coming from the direction of the stables. He raised his arm in greeting when he saw her, and she stopped walking, allowing him to come up to her.

“You’ve been to see the new foal?” she asked him when he drew near enough.

“Aye. A sturdy little colt. Black, like his mother.” He was pleased with the horse, Catelyn could tell, but he was not as enthusiastic as he normally would be. Likely poor Hullen had feared him not pleased at all, for he still wore his lord’s face. He looked stern and almost expressionless, but that face which hid his true feelings from almost everyone was no impediment to her. Over the years, she had learned to tell his mood or discern any emotion by the subtle changes in his eyes, or the tiniest movement of his lip or jaw. His feelings were rarely mysteries to her.

“I am glad you are pleased,” she said. “The children were excited.”

At that, his grey eyes did lighten just a bit. “Hullen told me they were there. Did they desert poor Maester Luwin and his books?”

“He gave his permission,” Catelyn said, smiling. “Septa Mordane was not quite so eager to let the girls off their sewing, but I gave them permission as well.” She twisted her mouth wryly. “Not that Arya waited for permission, of course. That’s how I found out about the foal--she came across me while sneaking away from the Great Keep.”

Ned almost laughed then, shaking his head. “What shall we do with that child? Wolf’s blood.” Then his eyes turned dark and stormy and he fell silent again, no doubt thinking of the sister that Arya so obviously reminded him of.

“Where are you bound now, my lord?” she asked him. 

“My solar. I have a number of letters I should answer before I leave on the morrow.”

“Would you like me to come and help?”

He shook his head. “You needn’t trouble yourself, Catelyn. They are simple, tedious matters. I will take care of them. I’d have all in order before I leave you.” His voice was even and matter-of-fact almost to the point of coldness, but Catelyn knew him well enough to hear the undercurrent of guilt.

“I know you must leave, my love,” she said softly. “It cannot be helped.”

His jaw tightened just a bit. “Too many things cannot be helped,” he said rather darkly. “I will see you at dinner, my lady.”

He turned then and walked away from her without even waiting to ask where she was headed, and Catelyn felt rather as if she’d been dismissed. In truth, she was going back to the Great Keep to see if Rickon had awakened and what her other children were doing. They could have walked together. Instead, she stood there watching him go, giving him the distance and solitude he apparently needed.

As she dressed for dinner that evening, choosing a dress she knew flattered her and taking extra care with her hair, she pondered her husband’s melancholy. He’d been in his crypt moods as long as several days in the past, but not since Rickon’s birth that she could remember. She hated the idea of sending him away in such a state. And if she were honest with herself, she hated letting him go while she was feeling so lost and insecure about his feelings.

If only he would speak to her about any of it! She’d grown very used to Ned’s taciturn nature over the years, but she could get him to speak about almost anything else, and he shared things with her that she knew he would never speak to another soul. She knew what it was to grieve deeply. The death of her mother in her youth had nearly destroyed her. But Ned’s grief was overlaid with such a tremendous amount of guilt that she couldn’t understand. He was not to blame for Brandon’s or Lyanna’s deaths. She knew that he often felt guilty for usurping his brother’s place as Lord of Winterfell and her husband, although he had done no such thing, but there was more to it than that. There had to be!

It did her little good to know his face so well that she could discern his feelings when she couldn’t know his thoughts. Sometimes, she feared the guilt had to do with the bastard’s mother. She knew he had loved her. She could see that on his face when he looked at the boy, and she hated it. Had the woman died in childbirth? Did Ned blame himself for that? As much as she hated thinking of his loving another woman, if he’d only tell her, she would try to help him still. She loved him too much to do otherwise. But the not knowing was painful. 

“I cannot help you, my love, when I do not know what grieves you!” she lamented out loud as she stood before her looking glass. He’d lost his father, his brother, his sister. He’d even lost Benjen after a fashion, for he’d been saddened by his younger brother’s decision to take the Black. She recalled well how melancholy he’d been when Ben first left--and she’d seen the same guilt then--as if even Ben’s decision to join the Night’s Watch might be laid at his feet. And, of course he’d lost the woman he loved. Even if she was not dead, she was lost to Ned. He would never shame Catelyn by seeing the woman again even if he could. He had far too much honor for that.

 _And he loves me,_ she told herself firmly. He did. She knew he did. _But does he love me enough?_ came a small, nagging voice. _Does he love me enough to truly be happy and let those who are gone be gone?_

The soft knock on her door announced his arrival. When she opened it to him, she was rewarded with the sight of his grey eyes moving over her in appreciation. “You look very beautiful, Cat,” he said softly.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

He held out his arm, and she took it as she had more than a thousand times, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world as the walked to the Great Hall together in spite of the distance between them these past two days. 

She had asked Old Nan to keep Rickon in the nursery as tonight’s dinner was likely to go late and become raucous, but the other children were waiting for them. They had all cleaned up rather well, even Arya, and Catelyn smiled as they lined up to walk in behind Ned and herself--Sansa on Robb’s arm, and Arya on Bran’s, although Arya and Bran kept shoving each other. The bastard would sit with them as well, as Robb forever wanted him there, but he would not walk in with them. Theon Greyjoy, as Ned’s ward, walked in last behind the family.

The mood of the men was lively, and the ale flowed liberally. When talk began to grow to ribald, Catelyn sent the children on to their rooms. They had all gotten plenty to eat by that point. Ned didn’t drink much at all. He never did before a journey. He liked to ride with a clear head. 

He’d been more somber than usual, and she noted some of the men staring at him as if wondering what was wrong. No doubt, any visiting lord from the south would simply see the frozen Lord of Winterfell of reputation, but there were any number of Ned’s own men who knew him well enough to tell that something bothered their lord.

“You should try to smile, Ned,” she teased him. “Your men look worried you might take away their ale.”

He did smile at her then, although it did not reach his eyes. “My men know nothing except that their ale is good and they get a chance to ride out in the morning.” He sighed. “Most of them think that’s about the best thing there is. It could only be better if it were a real war we rode to.” He shook his head. “They don’t know anything, my love.”

She hated the sadness in his voice, but her heart felt a bit lighter simply to hear him call her ‘my love.’ 

“What is the best thing then, my love?” she asked him.

He hesitated only a moment. “This,” he said. He didn’t explain whether he meant Winterfell, the dinner, or something else, but he was looking at her as he spoke. He then turned back to look out at his men, but he laid his hand on her thigh as he’d done countless times before, and she covered it with her own.

They left the Hall not long after that, and when they reached her room, he had barely closed the door behind them before pressing her up against the wall and kissing her almost painfully. She felt her heart race and her breath come short as she returned the kiss, but just as she thought he would reach for the laces of her dress, he pulled away suddenly and walked halfway across the room.

“Ned!” she cried out. “What is wrong? Can you not tell me?” she begged him.

He turned around and looked at her. “I am unfair to you, Catelyn,” he said. “You should not be burdened by my own sins.”

“What sins?” she asked him. He’d never said even this much before. “What sins? Tell me, Ned.” She walked to stand in front of him.

He shook his head. “I am not the husband you deserve. I have shamed you.”

She stared at him. She knew perfectly well he’d done nothing to shame her here at Winterfell. “Is this about the bastard?” she asked him. She almost never spoke about the boy. He’d forbidden questions about him, after all, and questions were all she had. But she couldn’t stop herself now.

He swallowed and said nothing. 

She would get no answers from him on this. Frustrated by his silence, she sighed. “I love you, Ned. You know that well. But I cannot be more than I am. I know that you still grieve for all those you’ve lost. I can see it well enough, my lord. To know that however much I wish it, I can never be enough to heal that grief--that even though you love me, I can never be enough--that is what makes me ashamed now.” 

She turned and walked away from him then, afraid that she would cry, and not wanting to appear any weaker than she already did.

He was behind her in the space of a few heartbeats, hands on her shoulders, spinning her around. His grey eyes bored into hers with an intensity that almost burned. “Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t ever say that.”

He almost frightened her, and he must have seen it in her eyes for he removed his hands from her shoulders and looked down for a moment. She waited in silence.

When he raised his eyes again, he said only, “Cat,” and it sounded like a plea or a prayer. His eyes looked much softer and they moved over her face as if seeing her for the first time or the last time, as if memorizing every detail of her features.

Finally, she couldn’t just stand there under his scrutiny any longer. “What are you looking at, Ned?” she asked him.

“You,” he said simply. “I do this every time I leave you, my love, only I do it as you sleep.” He swallowed. “I never want to risk missing the last look I may have at your face.”

“Ned,” she said, “You will return before long. This won’t be a long trip.”

“I know,” he said. “But I have learned to take nothing for granted. Not you. Not our children. Nothing. I am sorry I have upset you these past few days. If I could change the past, I would.” He swallowed. “But I would not change this.” He raised his finger then to trace the features of her face as his eyes had done. “Gods forgive me, Cat, I would not change this.”

He kissed her softly then, a tender and loving sort of kiss unlike any they’d shared since the raven from the mountains had come.

He pulled his face slightly away from hers then and said, “You are enough, Cat. You are always enough.”

The next morning, she awoke in his arms and smiled at the memory of both his words and their lovemaking from the previous night. All too soon, she stood in the courtyard watching him check his saddle one last time before coming to embrace the children and then take her hand. 

“I will miss you, my lady,” he said formally, but there was none of the coldness that had been there before.

“I will miss you, my lord. Return to us quickly.”

He nodded, and then he looked at her, and she saw the echo of the way he’d looked at her last night. She realized that she did the same thing, watching his face and storing away the memory of it to hold closely until she saw him again.

She knew that something would prompt another visit to those crypts on some future day, and that he might retreat from her and battle doubts and sorrows and guilts that something prevented him from ever sharing, but she had heard the truth in his words last night.

Looking at him now, she knew those words were true for her as well. If she never saw him again, her heart would break, but still while he was hers, she would know she had all the love any woman could want. And suddenly she needed him to know as well.

“Ned,” she said, as he was turning to go, “You are enough. I want you to know that.”

He smiled at her--one of those beautiful, transforming smiles that had been the first thing about him to truly touch her heart all those years ago in Riverrun.

Then, he nodded, mounted his horse, and rode away with his men.

Catelyn watched him until he was gone. 

Her heart already felt heavier for his absence, but she closed her eyes and recalled both his sweet face and the way he had looked at her own. 

_It is enough._


End file.
